


Bucky's Boyfriend and other Stories

by aftershocks



Series: We Bought a Bar [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron noncompliant, Innuendo, Marvel Cinematic Universe Phase Two Compliant, References to Comic Canon, Sequel, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:25:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3410573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aftershocks/pseuds/aftershocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky has someone's phone number (and, somehow, inexplicably, seems... giddy?); everyone else has a mighty need to find out what's happening.</p><p>Also explored: Wade's thing for Peter, how long it takes for Sam to move in, Fury's deep-seated aversion to people, none pizza with left beef, and the color of Captain America's boxers.</p><p>This work is a sequel to "The Superhero Wives' Club".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Good Morning America

“Don’t say it. Don’t you dare—”

“On your left!”

Sam rolled his eyes and stuck his leg out. Steve leapt over his foot and kept jogging. 

“Keep up!” he called back.

Sam grumbled to himself about super-soldiers, forced himself into a sprint, and tackled Steve onto the grass. Steve used the momentum to roll them so that he was sitting on Sam’s chest, grinning. Sam shoved him.

“Get off.”

“See? You _can_ run faster than me.”

Sam coughed and pushed again. “Gotta breathe.” Steve slid off and settled beside him. “Given that we’re dating now, you could slow down sometimes.”

“What, and ruin all the fun?”

“Look, old man. Who cooks you breakfast and makes sweet, sweet love to you?”

“I don’t know that _sweet_ is the right word…”

“Who puts up with your ridiculously short refractory period and your snoring?” 

“I’m not the only one who snores!”

“No, just the only one who requires attention every three minutes. You’re worse than a teenager.”

“Making up for lost time, I suppose.”

“I think that aspect of the serum was intentional. You should ask Stark if his dad had a thing for you.”

Steve grimaced. “Never imply that Howard had anything but respect for me again.”

“Or what?”

Steve moved to straddle him. Sam squirmed under him and laughed, until Steve grabbed his chin and stared him down. “Do you really want to test me, Wilson?”

On the one hand, they were in a public park. On the other, it was 6 am and when Steve said anything in that particular dark tone, Sam’s insides turned to a warm mush. He weighed these arguments, threw sense out the window, and lunged up to kiss Steve. 

Their kisses got sloppy and Sam ran his hand up under Steve’s t-shirt. When Steve didn’t move away or chastise him, Sam dipped his fingers under the waistband of his sweatpants.

Steve swatted his hand.

“ _Steve,_ ” he whined against Steve’s lips.

“Captain America can’t fondue in public. And you need to get to work.” Steve stood and offered him a hand up. Sam stuck his tongue out, but took Steve’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

“I go in at 10.”

“It’s Saturday. You’re not gonna make Bucky prep for brunch all alone. Besides,” he grinned and adjusted himself through his sweats, “I have some things to take care of.”

“You’re a bastard.”

“I’m a national hero. If you beat me to my place, I’ll join you in the shower.”

Sam had never run faster in his life.

 

Sam lost but Steve showered with him anyway. They stayed until the water ran cold and then tumbled out, slippery and giggling. Sam managed to drag him into the bedroom, where Steve looked at the clock and almost had an aneurysm. 

“Shit!”

Sam kissed him hard but Steve wasn’t about to fall for that again. He had been late for three coffee dates with Coulson because of Sam and his tongue. No, he chided himself, don’t think about that. Gently, he pushed Sam away.

“Steve, c’mon, it’s like 7:30,” Sam protested.

“And I promised Bucky I’d have you there half an hour ago.” Steve went to the closet, pulled out his favorite t-shirt, plus boxers and jeans from the small collection of Sam’s clothing that had found its way into his apartment, and threw them at his boyfriend. “Get dressed.”

Sam pouted. Steve raised an eyebrow.

Two minutes later Sam was fully-clothed and picking at the too-large shirt. “I look like a goof in this thing.”

“You look like _my_ goof. Go to work or I’ll call Nat to come get you.”

“What, and interrupt her beauty sleep?”

“If you think she isn’t awake and prepared to kill a man by 4 am every day, you’re kidding yourself.”

“ _...Fine._ ” 

Steve followed him out of the bedroom and watched him go; Sam turned back once to flip him the bird, which Steve interpreted as a sign of affection. When he was gone, Steve shuffled into the kitchen and made himself a peanut butter and banana sandwich, one of many things he had never been able to eat before the serum and now consumed in mass quantities. He poured himself a glass of milk to wash it down.

The strains of Marvin Gaye’s “Heard it Through the Grapevine” came from across the apartment.

Steve sprinted out of the kitchen, bare-assed and clutching his sandwich in one hand, slid on the hardwood floor, and crashed sideways into the bathroom just as his phone stopped ringing. Blood trickled into his eye. He reached up and prodded at wound, a smallish gash by the feel of it that must have been the result of tumbling head-long into the bathroom counter. The serum would see it stitched back together within the hour, so he ignored it in favor of shaking his sweatpants until his iPhone fell out of a pocket. Thank God Tony gave him a case for Christmas. 

“Missed call: Natasha”

Steve swallowed hard and tapped at the screen until the message started to play back.

“Steve, goddammit, you had better be dying or up to your neck in Hydra agents. I don’t know who the hell you and Bucky were giggling over the other night, but—shut _up_ Clint—I ran over it five times and if it’s not Clint and it’s not Rhodey then I don’t know who the fuck it is. I swear, if you let him get all gaga over Johnny Storm or, or… _Wade_ , I will kill you. Actually, really kill you. Call me.”

Steve missed the rotary telephone his mom had when he was growing up. It required patience and precision; if your hand was shaking too badly, you couldn’t dial it. His iPhone provided him with no such excuses. He pulled up Natasha’s number and hit “call.” While he waited for her to pick up, he wondered if he still had time to compose a will.

“I’ll ask you once, Steve. Whose number did Bucky get?” Natasha did not believe in small talk or formal greetings. 

“Why the hell would you think it was Clint?”

“ _Answer the question, _Steve.”__

__“I told you not to worry about it.”_ _

__“Rogers, when it comes to you and Barnes, I worry about everything. Answer the question.”_ _

__Steve had to battle a tide of bile rising in his throat to get the next words out, but he managed to say, “No one you know, and none of your business. Just drop it, Nat.”_ _

__“You’re a terrible liar. I’ll just ask Bucky.”_ _

__Steve started to protest, but she had already hung up._ _


	2. Brunch and Revelations

Pepper took a bite of banana bread and chewed slowly. Natasha knew she did it on purpose. She used the tactic on Tony all the time: give him time to think, an organic pause in the conversation, and maybe he’ll realize how stupid he sounds on his own. It rarely worked on Stark. It never worked on Natasha.

“I think Steve’s right. You need to let this go,” said Pepper, just as the silence became unbearable.

“Traitor.”

“No, unbiased observer. Why do you care who Bucky dates, anyway? You rejected him.”

“Why do you care who Happy dates?”

Pepper flushed scarlet up to the tips of her ears but otherwise maintained her composure, which annoyed Natasha. “He’s my friend.”

“He’s also your head of security, whom you rejected.” Pepper rolled her eyes. “Bucky’s _my_ friend. I just don’t want to see him hurt.”

Natasha watched out of the corner of her eye as Sam approached their table, two plates balanced on one hand and three over-full champagne glasses in the other.

“Are you two still talking about Bucky?” Sam passed Pepper and Natasha each a plate of Eggs Benedict, then slid into the booth next to Pepper. He distributed the champagne glasses before either woman could say anything; Natasha had to admit, at least to herself, that this showed a certain tactical genius.

“Please, sit down,” Pepper deadpanned. 

“You know Cap wants you to leave that alone, right?”

“You know it’s really weird that you still call him ‘Cap,’ right?”

“Kink-shaming is rude.”

Pepper’s mouth snapped shut. Natasha pushed her plate away.

“Thanks for the image, Wilson. Cut the crap and tell us what you know,” she said.

Sam looked around furtively, as though Steve might burst in at any second and declare them all traitors to his friendship and the American way. Natasha reached across the table, took hold of his pointer finger, and yanked it backwards.

“Fuck!”

“Talk,” she said, her voice flat and cold.

“Ow. Okay. He’s… I don’t know, mooning? But not like he did over you.” He shrugged at Natasha, who raised an eyebrow. “I mean. He kind of went ballistic over you, honestly. Steve told me he had to tackle him—he thought Bucky was going to break his arm.”

“Wow,” said Pepper.

“Can we not rehash this?”

Sam took one look at Natasha’s face and rushed onwards. “He’s calm. It’s almost like he found his center, or something. He’s like he is in the newsreels from before he got captured, before everything HYDRA did.”

Natasha laughed. The other two stared. Finally she said, “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“No, he’s”—

“When was his last panic attack?” Pepper and Sam stared at the table. Natasha let the silence build until he could see the shame etched into their faces. “Bucky’s happy, and thank God for it. But he’s not how he was. He never will be. Steve knows that, I know that, and you can bet your ass Bucky knows it. Whoever’s got him like this should know it, too.” She shook her head. “I don’t like that this is happening so fast.”

Sam’s head snapped up. “What, he’s not damaged enough for you?”

“Sam!” said Pepper.

“It’s a fair question!”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“What, because I’m defending—”

“Because you’re asking someone who’s been through hell—”

“Someone who should know better than to imply—!” 

“That’s not what I meant.” Pepper and Sam turned toward Natasha in tandem. She swiped at her eyes and swallowed hard. “I don’t want to see him hurt.”

Sam didn’t shut up. “Steve said that this guy, whoever he is—”

“Is a good guy. I know. But Bucky is vulnerable and if this guy does _anything_ —”

“Bucky’s not weak.”

Natasha slammed her palm against the table. Sam jumped. “I know he’s not weak!” 

Her heart raced and she felt sweat bead on her forehead; her fingers twitched towards the gun at her side. She heard Pepper say, her voice muffled as though she were underwater, “Sam, you should go.”

Sam gathered their glasses, Natasha’s and Pepper’s still sloshing with Mimosas, and went back to the kitchen to wash them. Pepper leaned in towards Natasha.

“You okay?”

Natasha stretched a smile across her face. “I’m fine. Of course I’m fine.”

She could see the word ‘bullshit’ on the tip of Pepper’s tongue and braced herself to argue, but Pepper only said, “So you talked to Clint? Or you just went through his phone? He knows well enough to delete messages, you know.”

“I thought you disapproved of my interest in the matter. And of spying on my boyfriend.”

“I do. But I want to know how that conversation went down.”

Natasha’s stomach twisted, but Pepper was looking at her with eyes too big for her face, soft and kind and hiding a hardness that could kill. She swallowed the lie that rose to her mouth and forced up the truth.

“I asked him if he wanted to sleep with Bucky.”

“And he said no?”

“That’s the long and short of it.”

“Hmmm.” Pepper returned to her eggs. Natasha tensed up and took a few bites of her own, her gaze locked on Pepper. Her stomach rumbled in displeasure; she put her fork down, but did not stop watching the other woman.

Finally, when her plate was clear, Pepper looked back at Natasha.

“Do you want to know what I think?” she asked.

“No,” said Natasha.

“I think you’re disappointed.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Because my boyfriend doesn’t want to fuck Bucky Barnes?”

“No. Because _you do_.” Pepper leaned back, a shit-eating grin plastered across her features. She looked far too happy.

Under the table, Natasha dug her nails into her palm. Above it, she rolled her eyes.

“…right. Do you want a mango or peach daiquiri?”

“Peach.”

“You sure?”

“I hate mangoes.” 

Natasha slipped out of the booth, bared her teeth at everyone who looked at her askance on her way to the bar, and ordered a scotch on the rocks and a mango daiquiri.


	3. Interlude: Clint

_So. I have a weird question. –SR_

_Hydrogen peroxide for clothes, ammonia for everything else. –CB_

_What? –SR_

_I assumed…Never mind. What’s up? –CB_

_I told Natasha that Bucky met a guy, and her first thought was that it might be you. Can I ask why? –SR_

_She told you about that, huh? –CB_

_Not in detail. –SR_

_It’s just… I thought you two were dating. –SR_

_Don’t let Nat hear you use the ‘D’ word. –CB_

_But yes, insofar as she dates anyone. –CB_

_Ah. –SR_

_Look, it’s not like I would cheat on her or anything. –CB_

_No, I didn’t assume you would. –SR_

_Right. –CB_

_Do you know the word polyamorous? –CB_

_Basically, I can love and be with more than one person at once. But not in a creepy frat boy cheater way.–CB_

_I’m shit at explaining it but I don’t want anyone else right now, and even if I did, Natasha doesn’t share well so it’d be a no-go.–CB_

_Because consent. –CB_

_If that helps at all? –CB_

Clint sent the messages one on top of the other, fingers flying over his phone's touchscreen. If anything, his anxiety about coming out had only increased over time. His orientation was no longer just a skill to use in the field—now that he had friends, it was part of him. The idea of permanent identity was alien enough to make Clint flighty; it grated against his depression, brought hope and light where the demons in his head whispered that he wasn’t supposed to have any. He held his breath.

_I know what polyamorous means. –SR_

Clint’s relief at Steve’s casual reaction was so great that he almost forgot to be surprised—almost. 

_No shit? –CB_

_No shit. –SR_

_I just wanted to check. There’s this guy who’s really interested in Bucky, and he doesn’t want to step on any toes. That’s all. –SR_

_No toes to be stepped on here. Do I know the guy? –CB_

_I’m not sure you would know him in this situation –SR_

_Ah. Secret identity? –CB_

_Something like that. –SR_

Clint smirked. _Something like that,_ indeed.


	4. Wade Wilson's Skin Condition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Parker still lives at home, Wade Wilson has some self-confidence issues, and Bucky throws an egg at Sam's head.

Wade sent Bucky one last text before he tucked his phone into one of the many pouches on his belt and knocked.

[So we’re winging it, then?]

{Looks like.}

The Plan consisted of soliciting Bucky’s advice before doing anything stupid; such advice would be applicable, Wade thought, because surely revealing one’s cancer-scarred, pockmarked face to a love interest was about as terrifying and risky as revealing one’s history as a HYDRA agent to Captain America. True to form, Wade lost patience with The Plan three unanswered text-messages in, and was diving straight into the something stupid.

“It’ll be fine.”

The door swung open. The responsible-head-of-household grin plastered across Peter’s face warped into a scowl.

“You really can’t be here right now,” he hissed under his breath.

The hearts and fat, winged babies cleared from Wade’s vision, leaving Peter looking much less festive in their wake. His expression was enough to unbalance Wade, but his eyes—

{Have they always been that devastating shade of brown?}

“We can check the shrine at home.”

{Oh yeah! Is the photo from the Daily Bugle still up?}

[Hey. Pay attention.]

Peter still didn’t look thrilled, but he seemed to be holding back a giggle.

[Or a scream of terror.]

Wade saw an opening.

“Petey, c’mon. I just want to talk to you for ten minutes. Tops.”

Peter glanced over his shoulder into the house. Wade stood on his tiptoes to see what Peter was looking at, and got so distracted trying to discern the details of the dimly lit entry-way that he didn’t notice Peter move towards him until the smaller man grabbed Wade by the wrist and dragged him around to the far side of the garage.

“Aunt May’s home,” he said.

{Ah, the ever-elusive Aunt May.}

[It’s pretty impolite not to introduce us.]

{Yes, that’ll go well. ‘Hey, Aunt May, this is the psychopath that just kind of follows me around.’}

[Don’t mind the spandex suit.]

{He’s ugly as sin, and did I mention a professional killer?}

“I could make us all lunch!” said Wade brightly. Peter rolled his eyes.

“First of all, it’s four in the afternoon. And, more importantly, Aunt May doesn’t know I hang around with…” he gestured at Wade vaguely.

“Bad guys?”

“I was going to say super-powered people.”

[So, bad guys.]

“So what? She knows you’re a reporter, right? And that you know Spider-Man?”

“She knows that I _photograph_ Spider-Man.”

“But not that you know him.” 

{Not that you _are_ him.} 

This was Wade’s favorite game, dangling the fact of Peter’s identity before him and observing the results. He knew who Spider-Man was beneath the mask, had known since—after one of their rare team-ups—Spidey disappeared and Peter Parker rounded the corner moments later, clutching Wade’s left hand, which had been severed in the fight. Wade pressed the appendage back to his bloody stump, and the boy watched not in horror but in fascination as the flesh stitched itself back together. Peter was seventeen at the time; if his reporter shtick sounded bogus then, it sounded even more so now that he was twenty-two and already Tony Stark’s protégé. 

Peter fidgeted and danced around the question with one of his own. “Why are you here?” 

Wade did his best to look innocent despite the spandex and the Katana strapped to his back. For added effect, he clasped his hands behind his back and scuffed at the ground with the toe of his boot. “Can’t I just check up on my friend?” Peter made a strangled noise at the back of his throat. Wade forged ahead. “I get so worried about you, living here alone with your Aunt. No companionship, no entertainment, and above all, no _love_ …” 

“ _Wade._ ” 

__{He’s not buying it.}_ _

__[Of course he’s not buying it. It’s a load of shit.]_ _

__“Fuck you,” said Wade._ _

__“Um…” said Peter._ _

Not you! Unless, you know, you _wanna_ …” 

__[Getting off topic.]_ _

__“Quit yer griping.”_ _

__[For fuck’s sake—]_ _

Okay! Okay.” He took a deep breath and looked up at Peter. “Look. I… ah, this is stupid. This is stupid, right, Petey? Look at me, stuttering like you give a fuck, like you’d even _want_ to see, or, I don’t know, care either way, you know?” 

__Peter rubbed his eyes and sighed; his mouth twisted in bemusement. “I really don’t know, Wade.”_ _

__Wade nodded. “Right? ‘Cause how could you? Haven’t told you. Have I? No.” He forced himself to take a deep breath, and then another and another, until every cell and tumor-warped neuron glowed with oxygen. “Try not to scream.”_ _

__“Why would I—”_ _

__Two things happened almost simultaneously; Wade ripped off his mask, and Peter’s mouth fell open like it might in a cartoon. Wade grinned to compensate for the scars. Whether this improved the situation was hard to judge, because Peter continued to gape at him, fish-like. Wade decided to test the water with a joke._ _

__“I’m not much to look at, baby boy, but you should see me in the sack.”_ _

__Peter’s mouth slammed shut. That was something, at least, but the way his eyes widened told Wade that it was maybe not a good something, that maybe it was a very bad something indeed. They stood in alley-way, each staring at the other, until the dread settled like an itch in Wade’s stomach._ _

__“I gotta go,” he said. He pulled the mask back on. Peter started to say something, but Wade covered his ears and ran._ _

__

__Bucky’s phone buzzed just as Sam ducked back into the kitchen. Bucky set his knife down and picked up his phone, scowled at it, and shoved it into his pocket; he didn’t have energy to deal with Wade’s self-esteem issues._ _

__Bucky was aware of Sam watching him but managed to ignore him until he asked, “Who’s texting you, your new boyfriend?”_ _

__Bucky threw a hardboiled egg at Sam’s head. Sam dodged and it splattered against the door to the walk-in. “What?!” he said._ _

__“Don’t… just…” Bucky shuddered at the images dancing through his mind and shook his head violently to clear them away. “No. Definitely not.”_ _

__“You’re blushing,” said Sam, and immediately shielded his face with his hands._ _

__Rather than throw anything else at Sam, Bucky raised his hand to his cheeks. They were warm and tight; Sam wasn’t wrong. He sighed.__

Primarily he was blushing at the idea of dating Wade Wilson and all that that might entail, not because he harbored any feelings for the merc—ew —but because only a few nights previously, Wade has described all the things he would do if he _was_ Bucky’s boyfriend. Most of them involved Bucky’s ass. All of them were mortifying coming from Wade Wilson. But below that was a deeper embarrassment, almost shame, because Deadpool was not as far removed from the whole boyfriend situation as Bucky would like. 

__Since the Red Room, Bucky didn’t do well with shame._ _

__“Leave it alone,” he snapped._ _

__The happy sparks in Sam’s eyes died down. He edged closer, one step at time; Bucky watched him, and when he got too close, shifted into a defensive stance._ _

__Sam opened his palms, dropped his eyes to the floor, and lowered his chin. Bucky recognized it as a posture of surrender, but he didn’t let his guard down. Sam glanced up then immediately looked back to the floor._ _

__“Look, Buck, I’m sorry. It’s not my business, except… I think Steve is worried, or at least he won’t shut the hell up about you, and Nat seems to think there’s something up, and you’re all worked up and—” he looked up, and the submissive stance fell away. “Frankly, man, you’re being kind of a shifty asshole about this whole thing. We just want to make sure you’re okay. The metal arm can’t protect you from emotional fuckery.”_ _

__Bucky felt a laugh rising behind the anger and shame, but he swallowed it down. “ _‘Emotional fuckery’?_ ” With no small effort, he managed to keep his tone flat._ _

__“Yeah. Emotional fuckery. You got a problem with that, Barnes?”_ _

__Bucky raised an eyebrow. Sam stepped closer. Bucky sighed. “It’s not my… this isn’t the guy,” he said, nodding towards the phone. “But I’ll be sure to tell you if I encounter any emotional fuckery.”_ _

__“And?”_ _

__“And if things go well and I get engaged, I promise I’ll tell you who it is. Jesus, Sam, you’re worse that Stevie. You and Nat’ll be the death of me.” He managed a light tone again and was pleased to find that it didn’t sound more forced than usual._ _

__Sam laughed too loudly, the sound filling up the kitchen and pressing on Bucky’s eardrums. “Literally, in her case, if we have to wait that long to find out.”_ _

__Bucky pulled an answering chuckle from the depths of his stomach. “Knowing Nat, she’ll figure it out before the first date.”_ _

__Sam grinned._ _

__“You have customers to attend to,” Bucky told him in a bright falsetto._ _

__Sam lifted a pot of coffee from the warmer beside the stove and pushed through the swinging doors in the dining room. Bucky watched him go, then turned back to the cutting board and chopped the last of the eggs while his skin grew clammy and his brain ticked into high gear._ _


	5. No one gets Any

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! I'll be updating more often now that the semester is over.

Rhodey and Fury took over the kitchen for the dinner shift. Sam and Bucky both protested that they could stay and help, but Fury chased them out the back door with a broom. In the alley, they shared a tight smile before heading their separate ways.

Sam took the subway to Avengers tower. The walk was nice but too slow; he had unfinished business with Steve. He told JARVIS as much when he felt the elevator rumble to a stop halfway to the floor that Steve shared with Clint.

“I need to see Steve.”

“Captain Rogers is occupied at present, sir,” chirped the AI. Not for the first time, Sam wondered if Stark had programmed it to be as annoying as possible.

“Look, this is important, okay?”

“I’m sure, sir.” There it was again, that clipped tone like an English butler. Sam ground his teeth together. “However, the Captain has requested that no visitors be admitted at this time.”

“I’m not a visitor, I’m his _boyfriend_ , and if I don’t get to pin him down and ravish him in the next five minutes—”

“As a non-resident of the tower, I am afraid that you fall under the category of ‘visitor,’ Mr. Wilson.”

Rather than curse at JARVIS, Sam said, as calmly as he could, “Then take me to Clint.”

“Mr. Barton is in Ms. Romanov’s suite. I should warn you, sir, interrupting them at the present time would be ill-advised.”

The image of Nat and Barton… well, doing _anything_ , pushed Sam over the edge of his rational mind. “Fuck. Fucking fuck. Stupid fucking old man with his stupid fucking complex…” he took out his phone and barked at it, “call Steve.”

Steve picked up on the third ring. “Hey.”

“Let me up.”

“Sam…”

“Steve, I don’t know what the hell game you’re playing, but I’ve been half-hard since the lobby and it’s _killing_ me. Actually, physically, killing me.”

“We need to talk.”

Sam gaped at his phone.

“Sam?”

“I… yeah. Uh. JARVIS?”

The AI’s muffled voice issued from Steve’s side of the line. “Captain Rogers?”

Steve must have nodded or waved, because the elevator hummed back to life and deposited Sam in the 12th-floor lounge moments later. Steve’s door was open, and Sam could hear Walk the Moon playing on the stereo. He drifted towards the apartment until Steve called, “I know you’re out there.” Sam lingered for a moment more and then forced himself through the door, pulling it shut behind him.

From his position in the entryway, he could see Steve stretched out in the living room. He sat with his back pressed against the couch, but even so his feet reached to just shy of the television stand, which shook with each beat of the music. Sam took the twenty feet from the door to the overstuffed blue couch at a sprint, vaulted over the back, and landed with a *whump* on the cushions.

“Hi,” he said.

Steve hummed a greeting but didn’t take his eyes off his sketchbook. Sam settled back into his seat to wait, discovered the universal remote wedged behind the cushions, and turned the music down so he could hear himself think. He was playing with the bass controls when Steve reached up and took the remote from him two songs later. 

“So.”

“At least let me fix the stereo first,” said Sam.

Steve conceded the remote; Sam adjusted the stereo to his preferred levels, and Steve laughed.

“If you’re going to program everything I own with your settings, you might as well move in already.”

Sam froze. 

Steve rushed on. “I know you said you weren’t ready. I know. But that was a couple of weeks ago, and sometimes there’s no time to wait until you’re ready. Sometimes ready doesn’t come until it’s too late, and then you end up dead or enemies or just _gone_.”

Steve was shaking so badly that the couch vibrated and Sam’s teeth clacked together; Sam swallowed the bile rising in his throat and slid down onto the floor. Pressed against Steve’s body, he could feel the other man’s heartbeat racing against his skin.

“No one’s going to leave,” he said.

“You can’t promise that.”

Sam sighed and wrapped an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “No, I can’t.” Steve slumped against him. He was still shaking. “Breathe.”

It took twenty minutes for Steve to stop trembling. Sam held him close and pressed kisses to the top of his head until Steve stood and dragged him towards the bedroom. They curled up and stared at the ceiling, and neither of them said another word.

 

Peter was working on the design for a solar engine on one of the table-top screens in Stark’s lab when Stark set a hand on his shoulder and scared the living daylights out of him. Peter spun and whipped his wrist out, then blushed and drew it back into his chest when nothing happened.

Tony raised an eyebrow and bent to examine Peter’s design. Peter edged in closer to watch as his fingers skated across the screen, and then rocked back out of the way when Tony changed the display to a 3D interface and straightened up. He turned to Peter and made a face.

“What?” said Peter.

“You’ve been messing with the motor for twenty minutes and it’s still a piece of crap. Not to mention—” he swung a fist at Peter, who barely managed to catch it—“your reflexes have gone to shit. Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Peter felt himself turn red, even as he muttered, “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” 

“Tony…”

“Tell me you didn’t get anyone pregnant.”

Peter blanched. “What?! No! God, no.”

“Good.” Tony leaned against the table caught Peter’s eyes. “So what’d you do? Blow up a major landmark? Kill someone?”

“I told you, Tony. Nothing.” Peter stretched around Tony to reach the screen. “Move.” When the other man didn’t step aside, Peter sat back. “Fine. I have a problem. A boy problem.”

Stark narrowed his eyes. “The type of problem I can solve, or more of Pepper’s kind of problem?”

“An in-love-with-the-wrong-person problem.”

“So definitely a Pepper problem.” Tony shuffled sideways and Peter grunted his thanks. “You try sleeping with him?”

“Thought you said it was a Pepper problem.” 

“Only if you actually love him.”

“No, I haven’t slept with him.”

“But you want to.”

“This is why I don’t tell you things.”

“It might help. Clear your head.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “How often has that worked for you?”

Tony didn’t answer; instead, he turned back to Peter’s design and started pulling it apart. Peter watched for a moment, and then joined in. They worked in silence until nine, when Tony cleared his throat and said, “You should probably invest in some better underwear.”

Peter’s head snapped up so fast he saw stars. “ _What?_ ”

“Good underwear is the key to a good lay. No one’s going to sleep with you if you’re wearing Captain America boxers.”

Before Peter could protest, Tony reached over and yanked the waistband of his Cap boxers up above his jeans and grinned. “Maybe try Iron Man briefs. Definitely sexier.”

 

_Sam was asking about_

_I thought you were going to_

_We should probably talk about_

Bucky scowled down at the half-finished text and threw his phone across the room. It was pointless, anyway. He knew better than to expect a text message to convince Steve of anything; years and years of pulling him up from the ground after fights and pressing cold washcloths to his head after he forced himself to work even though he was running a fever were more than enough to convince Bucky of his stubbornness. If Steve didn’t want to talk to Sam about Bucky’s situation, nothing Bucky could say would change that.  
“I don’t even _want_ him to know!” Bucky shouted to his bedroom wall. He slammed his fist into his pillow and the bed creaked under him. 

The phone rang. Bucky sighed and went to retrieve and answer it.

“Buck?” Steve’s voice sounded small and tinny and a small part of Bucky was annoyed that it wasn’t clearer and brighter. He wanted to be rid of that too-tiny voice.

“Stevie? It’s kinda late.”

“Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No! No. Sorry,” said Bucky. He shook the strange desire from his head. “‘M just surprised. You’re usually asleep by now.”

“Couldn’t sleep. I got your text, though.”

Bucky cursed to himself. “I didn’t mean to send that.”

“I figured.”

Bucky waited for Steve to continue, and finally said, “You there?”

“I can talk to him if you want. I just thought you wanted time to figure this out.”

“No, I do. I just had a moment, you know?” 

“It’s not because—”

“I know.”

Bucky watched the clock on his wall while ten minutes slid by, the sound of Steve’s breathing and the occasional soft cough in his ear. 

“I love you, Steve,” he said when his eyelids started to grow heavy.

“I love you too, Buck.”

Bucky fell asleep with the phone clutched to his ear.


	6. April 3rd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised more regular updates. So. You know. I tried.
> 
> Trigger warning: panic attacks, emotional manipulation/abuse, skipping meals.

March was unusually warm. Over coffee, Bruce explained to Natasha that this was because of global warming. In turn, Natasha explained to Clint that if he kept insisting on taking cabs everywhere, he would be solely responsible for the end of the world.

Clint nodded along.

He wasn’t afraid of the end of the world or of his relatively small carbon footprint, but he was afraid of Natasha and of the layer of pudge slowly building up on his abs. With SHIELD dismantled and the Avengers less active than usual—between Spider-Man, Ant Man, The Fantastic Four, and the others who passed through Fury’s bar, there was less work to be done—he wasn’t getting as much exercise as usual. Sam and Steve invited him to go jogging, but that was never his style.

Neither was walking, hence the cabs, but Natasha seemed dead serious, so he took to the rooftops. It was fun to bounce from place to place, screaming “PARKOUR” all the way and frightening pigeons, and even more fun to shoot muggers in the butt with electrified arrows. It was going well until one day a large man near Hell’s Kitchen dodged his arrow. Clint made the mistake of dropping off the roof and getting in the guy’s personal space. He woke up in a dumpster twenty minutes later, his head pounding.

He wasn’t alone.

“What the hell?”

The man in the red suit turned around to face him and grimaced.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, only Clint couldn’t hear him and had to read his lips. He wondered where the hell his hearing aids were. 

“So are you.”

The man nodded. “It happens.”

Clint decided that he probably shouldn’t point out how ridiculous it was for a grown man to be sitting in a dumpster. “D’you have a name?”

The man’s shoulders shook. Clint guessed he was laughing. “They call me The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. You?”

Clint gaped at him. “ _You’re_ Daredevil? Wow. I somehow thought you’d be…”

“Taller?”

“Cooler.” He pulled his hand out of the garbage and stuck it out. “Hawkeye.”

Daredevil reached for his hand, missed by half an inch, then caught it and shook it on the second try. Clint squinted at him. 

“Are you okay?”

“What? Yeah, why wouldn’t I—oh, the hand-shaking thing.”

“That and the blood oozing out of your head, yeah.”

“I’m fine.”

“…right.”

“I’m blind.”

“Ah.” Clint stared down at the refuse he was sitting in. Most of it was in bags, but a half-eaten pizza was scattered around him in a perfect semi-circle. It was strangely comforting.

When he looked up, Daredevil was staring at him with his head cocked to the side. “Hawkeye? Are _you_ okay?”

“Sorry, did you say something?”

“Yeah, I asked how you got here, and you were weirdly quiet. I thought you might have spaced out on me.”

“I don’t hear well. There was a clown.”

Immediately, Daredevil turned to face him fully and lifted his chin to give Clint a better view of his lips. “Sorry I can’t sign.”

“Sorry I can’t hear. Want to climb out, or should we just stay here with the other trash?”

Daredevil grinned. “The dumpster’s a bit crowded for two. How about we go get pizza that hasn’t been sitting around for a week?”

Clint had never heard a better idea in his life. “Pizza sounds great.”

 

March bled into April and everyone settled into their routines. Sticky, awkward, avoidant routines, but that was no different than usual. Natasha kept one eye on Bucky and the other on Clint’s new friend, Matt, who wore an “I’m not Daredevil” sweatshirt, which he insisted was a joke gift from his best friend.  
Matt’s vigilantism didn’t bother her, but his encouragement of Clint’s more pointless endeavors did.

“You’re not ordering a pizza crust with ground beef on it.”

“ _Left_ beef.” 

“Excuse me. You’re not ordering plain crust with _left beef_ on it. Give me my credit card.”

Matt turned those big kicked-puppy eyes on her. “Ms. Romanov, please. I can pay you back, but Clint and I have been talking about this since we met.”

That was the other thing. Apparently Matt’s braille keyboard did memes, because he was up on every stupid internet fad that Clint loved. Natasha shot Clint a glare over Matt’s head and he shrank back against the loveseat he was sharing with Matt.

“Fine. But next time we get Indian, Clint has to suck it up and order something spicy.”

“Deal.” Matt stuck out his hand and Natasha shook it.

“Objection!” said Clint.

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Overruled.” 

Ten minutes later there was a knock on the door. Matt poked Clint in the side, and Clint grinned like a loon and skipped to the door. His face fell when he opened it.  
Sam’s voice issued from the hallway. “Is Nat here?” 

“Yeah, come on in.”

Natasha was glad she was standing beside the loveseat; it gave her something to grip onto when she saw Steve. He was propped against Sam’s side, his eyes shot wide with panic, trembling and sweating and struggling from to stand. Sam’s face was drawn. The color drained out of Natasha’s knuckles and she swayed on the spot.

“He’s not hurt.”

Natasha’s heart untwisted itself a little. “Panic attack?”

“This is the third one.”

Clint, who was hovering around looking nervous, coughed loudly. Matt peeled himself off the loveseat, murmured, “Thanks,” and followed Clint out into the hall. The door shut behind them with a clap.

“He got bad around 8. He used his coping skills for a while, and then asked for help, but there’s nothing I can do.” Sam’s shoulders slumped.

“Do you know what triggered it?”

“It’s April 2nd.” 

Natasha crossed the room and wiggled under Steve’s other arm; she and Sam guided him to the loveseat. 

“Steve?”

Steve looked at her, his eyes glazed. He was still shaking. “I didn’t… he had a knife.”

“I know. He’s okay, Steve.”

“He didn’t know me.”

Natasha looked at Sam; he shook his head. “He asked for you. I don’t think he feels safe at home right now.”

“It’s not you, Sam,” Natasha said.

“I know.” She watched him until he nodded. “I know, Nat.”

Natasha cradled one of Steve’s hands in hers. “I know this is a hard day for you, Steve. I can’t fix that, but I need you to hear me. It is 2016. You are safe and in a loving place. Bucky is safe, and he is home. No one is in danger.”

Six glasses of water, two long cries, and an impromptu blanket fort later, Steve fell into a fitful sleep with Sam and Natasha curled around him. Natasha dealt with her anxiety quietly in the dark.

 

Bucky leaned over the toilet and vomited for the third time that morning. His post-workout midnight snack of chocolate milk and half a peanut butter sandwich had cleared long ago and he hadn’t bothered with breakfast; now all that was left was the acid that burned his esophagus.

When the night terrors and flashbacks came, he fell back on his conditioning: no food, no drink, no sleep, and no emotion; a sense of crippling fear and shame if he failed. It was what he knew.

The knob rattled. “Buck?”

“Go away.” The last person Bucky wanted to see was Steve Rogers. Sam, who had followed him to the bathroom, came in a close second.

“Bucky, man, everyone’s worried about you.”

Bucky chuckled. Everyone was _always_ worried about him; he saw it in glances that darted away from him when he entered a room and the down-turned corners of mouths when his name came up in conversation. Tossing his cookies was insignificant compared to panic attacks and bursts of aggression.

“C’mon, Bucky. At least tell me what’s going on.”

Bucky slammed his fist into the wall. It collided with a metallic clang and left a dent the size of a baseball.

On the other side of the door, Sam shouted. Bucky heard footsteps— three people, only one under 200 pounds—followed by whispers. Three sets of footsteps retreated, but something had changed: Sam was among those departing. The lightest person remained.

“Let me in.” 

He reached over and unlocked the door, then turned to place it at his front rather than to his side. The door swung open; Natasha slipped into the room, closed it behind her, and dropped into a crouch in front of him.

“It was two years ago today,” he said.

“When you pulled Steve out of the Potomac?” 

“When I nearly killed him.” 

The silence stretched on for long minutes and Bucky was afraid that she was contemplating the best way to tell him how much he disgusted her.

“Sam brought him over last night. It took us six hours to calm him down. He gets funny this time of year. Something about putting your best friend in a chokehold does that to you, I guess.”

Bucky looked up, at a point half an inch above the bridge of her nose, not quite her eyes but close enough to fool most people. Natasha reached out and grabbed his chin, held him steady, and found his gaze with her own.

“Look at me,” she said. Bucky glanced instinctively at the floor. She flicked his jaw. “Look at me, Barnes. I’m not your handler.”  
Bucky dragged his eyes to hers and held them. They were too wide and darting every which way as if to escape, only to return at the last second. She hated this as much as he did.

“Natasha…”

“Don’t.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“What, look at you? It’s not such a hardship since you cut off all that greasy hair.” She reached out and took his left hand. For months, Bucky pulled away from anyone who touched it—something looked wrong about human skin juxtaposed with metal—but with Steve’s help, he had come to think of it as comforting, humanizing. Natasha continued, “You can’t be the Asset right now, Bucky. You have to leave all that Red Room shit right here. Steve needs you.” 

Bucky stopped holding back tears. Natasha didn’t say anything, just grasped his hand more tightly. In return, he didn’t mention the tooth marks she worried into her lower lip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used Matt Fraction's story about how Hawkeye lost his hearing because I don't want to spend three chapters explaining Clint's already insane love life and also because Matt Fraction is comic god.


	7. Flirting, Food Fights, and Fractures

Sam met Natasha on her way out of the bathroom. She scowled at him and he grinned back. 

“Bucky still in there?”

“Not if you’re lucky.”

Bucky was still in there, curled on the floor but no longer pale and trembling, so Sam sat down next to him and bumped his shoulder against Bucky’s. 

“Hi.”

“Natasha said she’d tell you to get lost.”

“Since when do I listen to Natasha?”

Bucky glared at him. “I could kill you.”

Sam shrugged. “Probably. But I trust you.” 

They sat in silence until Bucky sighed and settled his head on Sam’s shoulder. “She was supposed to tell you I was uncontrollable and she’d gone to get Steve to calm me down. We had this whole thing where I broke the sink in a fit of rage.”

“That would’ve been stupid. Fury would take it out of your paycheck.” 

“Yeah, well.”

Sam nodded and reached for Bucky’s hand. Bucky didn’t move closer but he didn’t flinch away, either, so Sam interlaced his fingers with Bucky’s and dragged his hand into his lap. Bucky gazed at the wall.

“I keep telling you I’m not afraid of you.” Bucky snorted. “I know you could snap my neck as easy as blinking, Buck, that’s not what I mean. I’ve seen a lot of people come back from wars different and violent and _empty_. You look in their eyes and all you see is the reflection of everyone they’ve killed.”

“So they’re like me, then.” Bucky tried to tug his hand out of Sam’s grasp, but Sam held on.

“No. You’re not empty, you’re lost. Your bed’s too soft and you sleep in too late in the mornings, and you can eat whenever you want and love whoever you want and no one dictates your thoughts any more, and it feels all wrong.” Sam, too, stared at the wall, afraid to look Bucky in the face and see his eyes go cold with rage or gooey-hot with pain. “If I was scared of that, I’d spend my life hiding from myself.”

“You’re crazy,” said Bucky, and then, sometime later, after Sam’s butt was numb from sitting so long and Bucky’s breathing evened out, “I think your bread’s burning.”

The air smelled like charcoal. Sam hadn’t noticed it over the scent of Bucky’s sweat and Old Spice aftershave, and when he left the bathroom to stop the kitchen from burning down, he half-wished Bucky hadn’t noticed, either.

 

Natasha left the restaurant and went straight home, where she curled into a ball on the loveseat and sobbed. Clint wandered into the living room and held her until she stopped shaking, and then kissed her and fed her spoonfuls of Nutella until she told him how much she loved Bucky, and whispered that he knew, and wasn’t Steve a lucky bastard, and she sat up so fast he couldn’t move and the back of her head broke his nose.

In the ER, she told him she would never leave him, and he told her that he knew that, too. 

 

After the smell of charcoal cleared from the air, Bucky picked himself up off the bathroom floor and went to investigate the situation in the kitchen. Sam stood at one of the prep stations, kneading bread dough with a scowl splattered across his face along with flecks of flour. Three blackened loaves poked out of the trashcan in the corner.

“If you left me to my nervous breakdowns, this kind of stuff wouldn’t happen.”

Sam grunted but didn’t look up from his work. “No shit. Steve’s the one who usually burns the waffles.”

Bucky crossed the kitchen and poked at the charred bread in the trash. “I don’t think he’s ever burned anything this bad before. Anyway, he’s a good cook.”

“ _No one’s_ a good cook when they’re distracted.”

Bucky left the bread. He made a round of the kitchen, stopping to stir and taste various pots of soup and pans of sauces, and stopped beside Sam. Sam passed him a lump of bread dough. Bucky broke off a tiny piece and popped it in his mouth. 

“You’ll get salmonella.”

“Shut the fuck up, Wilson.”

“Language, Barnes.”

Bucky threw his remaining dough at Sam’s head. Sam dodged, grabbed a handful of flour out of the bag in front of him, and rubbed it into Bucky’s hair.

The food fight escalated to a full-out war, when, having exhausted their supply of flour and bread dough, Sam and Bucky dove for the walk-in. Bucky got there first and set up camp by the eggs; Sam slid in a moment later and Bucky pelted him with half a carton. Sam quickly gained the upper hand, however, when he fumbled forward blindly and ended up clutching a tomato. Left with only cheese and eggs, Bucky struggled to defend himself from the onslaught of fruit and vegetables flying at him from the other side of the refrigerator. He was on the verge of surrendering when he spotted a pan of unbaked brownies across the way. He covered his crotch and ran, grabbed for the pan, and upended it over Sam’s head. Sam yelped and threw one last lemon at Bucky.

“My _brownies_ ,” he wailed.

Bucky grinned. “Better this way. Now the customers won’t have to suffer through them.”

Sam tackled him to the floor.


	8. Beautiful Sinnamon Rolls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I return from an unintentional hiatus and the plot thickens. 
> 
> TW: Alcohol, self-harm, implied sex

“And I don’t want the wo-orld to see me, ‘cause I don’t think that they’d understand…”

[Stop singing.]

{WHEN EVERYTHING’S MADE TO BE BROKEN}

“I just want you to know who I am!”

[Are you done?]

{Again!}

Wade rolled over in bed, grabbed the bottle of Captain Morgan off of his bedside table, and managed to direct most of a swig into his mouth. The rest dripped down his chin onto the neck of his suit, which already smelled strongly of beer, liquor, and jello shots. 

[You’re pathetic.]

“Yup.”

[This isn’t getting you laid.]

“Nope.”

{We could call him!}

“Are you drunk?”

[You can’t get drunk.]

“But he can!”

The boxes fell silent. He supposed they were tired of this argument, which he had been having with them at least six times a day for the past two weeks. In fact, other than drinking, sleeping, eating ice cream, singing, and staring at his cell phone, that’s all he had done for two weeks.

Peter hadn’t called.

Never mind that Wade hadn’t called Peter, and that he was ignoring texts from Bob, Logan, and Bucky. He was stranded on the deserted isle of his own misery and there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do about it.

Although something outside smelled amazing.

{No, focus. And I’d give up forever to touch you…}

Cinnamon rolls. It was definitely cinnamon rolls.

{Wade? To touch you, ‘cause I don’t…}

Wade stood and crossed to the window. It was broken so that it wouldn’t close all the way; the smell of warm, spicy goodness drifted up from a food cart in the street below.

“Oh, fuck this,” said Wade. He jumped out the window, hit the roof of the food cart, and smashed through it onto the head of the unsuspecting server. 

“Sorry!”

The young woman, who was probably not paid enough to put up with his shit, threw a churro at his head. 

Wade grinned. Churros were way better than cinnamon rolls.

 

“Pick up your phone, you ugly goddamn—”

“Heya Snowflake.” Bucky was too distracted by the commotion on the other side of the line to roll his eyes at the nickname.

“Wade? What’s going on?”

There was a muffled crash, and then shouting in Spanish. “Small misunderstanding with the cops. Actually it might be really helpful if you came and bailed me out. You know where I live, right? I was cuffed to the streetlight while they disperse the mob. I broke my wrist and slipped out, but there’s a cop coming and I really have enough things on my record this month so—”

The phone cut off with a shrill beep. Bucky rolled out of bed and put his pants back on.

 

Somewhere between the street, where Bucky negotiated his release with a scowl, and his apartment, Wade had a mental breakdown. Or at least, the voices dissolved into pinks and greens and when he got into the shower at Barnes’ insistence, he scrubbed at his skin until it peeled and his blood swirled down the drain. Bucky broke the door down well after the water had run cold, wrapped him in a towel, and dragged him into the bedroom.

“Showed him my face,” Wade murmured. They were perched on the bare mattress; Bucky had stripped the bed of the stinking sheets and worn-down comforter.

“Think he cares?”

“I think anyone with eyes cares.”

Bucky shrugged. “You’d be surprised, what people with eyes care about. I can’t tell you how much shit I’ve gotten about how it’s what’s in my heart that matters.”

Wade didn’t need to look at him to know he was grimacing.

“When people say stuff like that, I tend to show them my collection of severed ears.” He laughed when Bucky made a gagging sound. “Kidding. I keep the keychains and watches and shit, not the ears.”

“Ears’d start to smell bad.”

“And they take up too much room in the fridge.”

Bucky fell backwards with a soft *whump*. Wade stayed sitting, staring at the wall. “Hey Barnes?”

“Yeah?”

“You talk to Steve about your thing yet?”

“Steve ain’t the problem. You talk to Parker?”

“Not since I took my mask off and scared him halfway dead, no. Figured he could use a little break.”

“Hmm. Did drinking and forgetting to shower help with that? I mean, granted, you smelled like shit and your sheets aren’t much better, so he’d probably stay away…”

Wade turned and flipped Bucky off. Bucky reached up, took hold of the offending finger, and yanked it hard enough to break it. Before Wade could break into a melodramatic speech, Bucky rolled back up to sitting and kissed him.

The first kiss was soft and hesitant. Bucky pulled away, face half scared and half something else and Wade could feel it in his own head, could hear the whispers analyzing the endorphins pumping through his brain, so he leaned in and made it all stop. It was hard to think with Bucky’s lips and tongue and teeth clattering on his own, the kisses hard and desperate and hungry.

Later, when they were lying naked, Bucky whispered, “Just so we remember that we’re not too broken.” Wade had hickies on his neck. They were fading, but for right now they were enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiatus is actually over this time I swear I already wrote the next chapter guys it's okay I promise.


	9. Sam is an Idiot, but we knew that

After the food fight, Sam went grocery shopping and, without thinking about it, took the subway to the tower and the elevator to Steve’s place and put the eggs away in his fridge. He lifted a box of Goldfish out of the shopping bag and froze. The box fell to the floor with a clatter, but thankfully stayed in one piece. Steve loved his Goldfish.

“Holy shit.”

Sam abandoned the groceries and went to sit on the couch, where he rocked back and forth, knees drawn into his chest, for a solid five minutes before swallowing his doubt and calling Steve. He was sent straight to voicemail.

“So I think I’m moving in,” he said. He glanced around. “Moved in. I bought eggs and apples and snacks and beer and now they’re in your kitchen. See you soon, I guess.”

He hung up, then thought better of it and redialed. “Uh. I hope that’s cool. That I… yeah. And we need to talk about Bucky. Totally unrelated. Fuck, okay. See you.”

 

Sam stayed rooted to the spot for an hour. He flicked on the television for a moment, but was confronted with a news story about the Avengers’ latest achievements. Rather than look at Steve’s face magnified and pixilated to cartoonish proportions, he turned it off and sat in silence, staring at the wall until Steve came home.

“Sam?” His voice was muffled by the walls between them, but it still sent an electric shock through Sam’s body. He stood, and then, lacking any real reason for doing so, sat back down again.

“In here,” he mumbled. Steve wandered in a minute later despite Sam’s best efforts to disappear, and took a seat on the edge of the coffee table.

“You okay?” Sam didn’t need to look to know that Steve was sitting with his palms face-up on his knees, his posture relaxed. Non-threatening. Sam had used the same body language with Bucky only a few hours earlier. He grunted.

“Thought about going home, leaving half the food for you. There’s too much for one person. Then I realized there’s no good way to split a box of Goldfish.”

“Especially since at least two-thirds of them are mine.”

Sam laughed. The tension began to flake away. “I’ll remember that next time we share a pint of ice-cream.”

Steve stuck out a foot and shoved Sam in the shoulder. Sam made room on the sofa so that Steve could curl up around him. It took them a moment to figure out the logistics of two huge men on a couch built for one average American. Their elbows clacked and their limbs knocked, and before they had settled their lips pressed together more than once.

“‘M glad you moved in,” said Steve.

“You just want me for my snack foods and sulky moods.”

“And the sex.”

“It is fairly good sex.”

Steve pressed his nose into Sam’s hair and giggled. Sam rolled his eyes. “Prude.”

“Nu-uh!” Steve’s arms tightened around him. “For all you know, I could’ve been thinking about something highly perverse. Like, like…”

“Fox costumes in the bedroom?”

“Hot wax and handcuffs.”

“We’ve tried that. Butt plugs with tails on them?”

“I’m sensing a very disturbing pattern. If you’re into that kind of shit, we’ll just call the Hulk in.”

Sam gagged. “Ew. God. I was gonna suggest Spidey, but that’s at least six times worse.”

“There’s always Squirrel Girl.”

Sam elbowed him. “Nah, c’mon, she’s nice. No, we need someone really wild and unexpected. Someone to really spice things up, you know?”

“Natasha and Clint get up to some pretty weird stuff.” Steve shrugged. “I don’t know how you feel about repurposed combat tactics…”

“Nah, man, for shit like that we’d need Bucky.”

The tension, which had ebbed away, returned in a rush. They both spoke at once.

“Look, Sam—”

“We have to talk about—”

“Sorry, I—”

“No, no. Go ahead.”

“No.” Steve untangled himself and moved to the opposite side of the couch. Sam scrambled to sit up straight. “What were you going to say?” Sam developed a sudden interest in the paisley upholstery. Steve sighed and prodded him with his foot. “Sam. Talk to me.”

With his eyes fixed on the one spot of magenta on the otherwise green-and-blue pattern of the sofa, Sam took a deep breath and began. “Bucky was freaking out today, really bad, worse than you were last night, worse than I’ve seen him in a while. Locked himself in the bathroom. So I went in there, and we talked, and he smelled like that dumb aftershave you both insist on using because you like the commercials with the guy on the unicorn, and then the bread was burning and he threw dough at me and I swear to God, Stevie, I would never… but I almost kissed him, when he was on the floor covered in brownie batter and flour and calling me a little girl, just to shut him up, and then he ran off and I just…” he gesticulated feebly at the air a foot in front of him. “I don’t know.” He let his hand drop and glanced up at Steve, ready to bolt if he’d made Captain America cry. 

Captain America was gazing levelly at him, an eyebrow raised. 

“The way Natasha tells it, you almost got yourself killed going in there while he was still angry.” Sam gaped at him. He continued, “She went home and had this same conversation with Clint, which somehow ended with Clint in urgent care. I dropped in on the way home to ask her why you sounded so freaked out in your messages. She’s good. Although,” he grinned, “she left out the bit about the food fight.”

Sam wrangled his voice long enough to say, “She went home before that.”

“Right. Well.” Steve shrugged. “I’m open to suggestions, but I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for a while. Figured we might see about getting you moved in first. I didn’t think we’d settle both points on the same day, but then I didn’t reckon on him seducing you in the bathroom either. Probably shouldn’t have given him my cologne, actually, now that I think about it—”

“ _Steve._ ”

Steve shook himself. Sam reflected that he seemed to have a thing for guys with an uncanny resemblance to sad dogs. “Sorry. Uh.” Now he stared at the fabric of the couch, his cheeks colored. "It was Bucky’s idea, actually. Well. Bucky’s idea suggested by Wade Wilson, but that’s just… anyway. He said that Wade said that maybe we hadn’t really explored everything this century had to offer, and then gave him a web address, and you know, with the smartphones you can just google these things wherever, so he looked up the website and came home that night from the pizza place—”

Sam snapped out of whatever trance he’d been in. “Hold the fuck on. It was _Deadpool_ he met? But that’s… _ew._ ”

“No.” Steve frowned. “Well, yes. But that’s not why he was happy. The website was a resource for queer teens, which is cool enough in itself, but the page Wade had given him the link for was about polyamory. It explained a lot to Bucky, I think, and then he showed it to me and it explained a lot to _me_ , and the Bucky suggested…” He was blushing up to the roots of his hair. “The three of us. Which I said I’d talk to you about, maybe, if it seemed like you might be open to that.” He hadn’t looked at Sam the entire length of his spiel. He glanced up now, his expression a mixture of fear and hope.

Sam felt sick. It wasn’t disgust but a creeping fear, anxiety gripping at his core and twisting until everything jumbled up. He’d known since the first time they saw the Winter Soldier, seen the love in Steve’s eyes even after the assassin dropped him half-broken on the banks of the Potomac, the hope electrifying his limbs when Bucky woke up in the hospital and said Steve’s name, and even if this wasn’t Steve choosing it was Steve inching farther away. Steve realizing that he didn’t have to settle for Sam anymore. He stood.

“I have to go,” he said, and backed away until he hit the wall and was forced to turn to flee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I've had this written for two months I've been reworking it that whole time. Sorry sorry. But this is a big moment, yes?


	10. Rhodey Fixes Stuff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex mentions and mild cursing. So you know, skip if that's gonna bother you.

Between Tony’s latest media fiasco (he’d threatened to sue Bailey’s for making alcoholism ‘so damn delicious’ on Good Morning America) and a week of meetings with Turing Pharmaceuticals in which she’d tried unsuccessfully to convince them to pull down the price of their AIDS drug, Pepper was exhausted. She kicked Tony out of the Penthouse on the pretense of allowing him to have a boys’ night with Rhodey. She ordered a pizza and dug a pint of Ben and Jerry’s out of the freezer. She was just sitting down to watch The Notebook when someone rang the buzzer.

She examined her surroundings. Her Hawaiian pizza sat steaming on the table beside her ice cream. Her phone was dark and hadn’t made a peep in an hour. There was no reason for the buzzer to be going off, much less a second time. And yet…

She hit pause just as the camera settled on Ryan Gosling’s butt. 

“JARVIS?”

“It’s Mr. Wilson, Ma’am.”

Sam had been to the penthouse twice, once when Steve had been injured on mission and once to cry in her lap a week after they’d found Bucky. As far as she knew, Steve was safe at home.

“You’d better let him in.”

Pepper pulled the pizza into her lap and settled the ice cream in the center of the couch; when Sam came around the corner into the living room a minute later, she thought better of it and held the pint out to him. He took it, hugging it to his chest, and collapsed beside her.

“Spoon,” he said. She handed him hers.

“What’s going on?”

Sam avoided her gaze, looking instead at the frozen image on the screen. “Nice ass,” he said around a mouthful. Chocolate ice cream dripped down his chin. “You gonna unpause it?”

Sam plowed through the ice cream and more than half of the pizza, and when Pepper made popcorn he took the bowl and didn’t give it back until it held only salt and kernels.

It was 3am and the snacks were gone and they were halfway through _Not Another Teen Movie_ when Sam said, “Steve wants to start dating Bucky.” He kept his eyes on the screen. Pepper glanced over and saw that he wasn’t frowning and his gaze was fixed on Chris Evans. Who, alarmingly, looked exactly like Steve would if he wore a letterman jacket. She turned back to the TV.

“He’s already dating you.”

“He wants to date both of us.”

At one point Tony had suggested that they bring Maria Hill into their relationship, but Pepper knew this was different. This kind of thing didn’t end in a slap and a string of apologies.

“He loves you.”

“He loves Bucky.”

“Yes.”

Pepper gave Sam ten minutes before she turned off the DVD player.

“Pep…”

“You came to my house in the middle of the night and ate all of my food because Steve decided to stop denying that the three of you have been making bedroom eyes at each other for months?”

“We _haven’t_ \--”

“Okay. That sounds fake, but okay. Point is, you like Bucky. Don’t pretend you don’t. You love Steve. He loves both of you. And Bucky looks at your ass like it’s a picture of God and lets you talk to him when he’s having a breakdown—”

“How does everyone know about that?”

“— and doesn’t kill you for touching him unexpectedly. So what’s the problem?” 

Finally, finally, Sam collapsed in on himself, his shoulders hunched up by his ears and his knees pulled into his chest. “Steve loves him more.”

Pepper got up from the couch and went into the kitchen to make a couple of phone calls.

 

Rhodey arrived first, Tony trailing in his wake. Pepper sent Tony to bed and settled on the LaZBoy chair that they kept in the corner for Thor. It was huge. She pressed herself back into it until she was out of view of the couch. She wanted to stay and listen, in case things got heated and she needed to call in more backup, but it felt like too much of a violation to watch Sam cry. And he was crying, hard enough that he hiccoughed every few seconds. Pepper heard Rhodey settle down beside him and give his back a few hard pats.

"You're being an idiot," Rhodey observed, his voice even and calm. “Not that you'd know, but you are. Howard loved Steve. Tony doesn’t talk about it, it makes him feel… I’m not sure, betrayed? And Steve loved him. You should see the pictures, God, Peggy and Steve and Howard holding hands like they won’t ever let go. Bucky wasn’t around, but you can bet your ass he woulda wiggled in there, too. This isn’t Steve’s first rodeo, Sam.”

Pepper repressed the urge to cross the room and break Rhodey’s nose.

“I’m not Howard.”

“And you sure as hell aren’t Peggy. You think Steve cares?”

Sam was silent for a long time. Someone shifted on the couch. The springs creaked. Pepper thought Rhodey must have moved to sling an arm around Sam’s shoulders. Then Sam must have spoken, because Rhodey’s voice rang out, insistent in the way it was when Tony wouldn’t hand over a bottle.

“No shit you’re not Bucky. It’d be pretty weird if Steve wanted to date two of the same person. Can you imagine the sex? You’d lose track. And if there was a fight—man, that’d be like dating Natasha. Lots of shouting and too many opinions.”

Pepper snorted.

“I’m afraid to lose him.” Sam’s voice broke around the words and he started crying harder.

Pepper stood and crossed to the sofa. Sam was tucked under Rhodey’s arm, pressed close, so Pepper sat on his other side and snuggled in, grounding him.

“You think Bucky’s not scared? You think Steve isn’t?” Rhodey’s voice was soft and laced with pain. “PTSD is a hell of a thing, Wilson. Tony still calls me in the middle of the night, half-delirious, and I think if he lost Pepper or me or any of you, he’d fade into his work until he was nothing but the suit. It’s hard.”

Sam sniffled. “It’s impossible is what it fuckin’ is.”

“Nah. Hard. And you’re gonna have to push through the jealousy if this is gonna work, Sam, but fear isn’t the enemy. Fear is what gives you a chance to be brave. Fear is why you put on the Falcon harness and followed Steve into his personal war. You didn’t lose him them and you won’t lose him now. He isn’t Riley.”

They were still, then, the three of them pressed together so they could barely feel their edges. Sam was breathing deeply, measuredly, and they fell into sync, and even when he spoke it was as if the impulse was communal. “I think I’ve given this exact speech in support group ten times.”

Pepper leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “Tony tells me every day not to drink. You know it because you live with it. That’s why the vets trust you.”

“Also,” said Rhodey, “why everyone in the city has a crush on you. You’re all soft and vulnerable on the inside.”

“I always thought it was my well-toned biceps, honestly.” Sam’s voice was still husky, but he was almost smiling. Pepper grinned.

“And the abs,” she said.

“Steve says you’ve got a big—” Sam pressed his hand over Rhodey’s mouth but quirked a smile, and then they were all laughing, more loudly than happy people perhaps but really laughing. 

Then, from behind them, “You’re all wrong. It’s his eyes and his smile when he flies, like his whole world is shining.” They knew the voice but they craned around anyway to see who was leaning against the back wall.

“Heya,” said Bucky.

Pepper and Rhodey decided, mutually and silently, to go on a walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha writer's block is a hell of a thing. But hey, look! A chapter!


	11. Two Traumatized Trash Babies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PTSD makes things complicated but also sometimes that's okay.

“So…”

Bucky took a running leap over the couch and settled next to Sam. “Shut up,” he said, pressing a hand over Sam’s mouth. “Just… be quiet, okay? Jesus.”

Sam scowled but didn’t try to talk; he was too surprised and exhausted to panic any more. Bucky studied him for a long minute and then took his hand away. Sam stayed silent.

“You know, Sammy, the first time I saw you and Steve squashed together in the booth at Fury’s, I figured that was it. I didn’t tell him how I felt in the 40s and I didn’t tell him when I woke back up, and he’d found a better man. I wanted to be mad. But hell, who wouldn’t want to date you? I’d been thinking about it, when you and Stevie were flirting. How you were so… I mean, man, the way he _looks_ at you, I get it. You treat us like people and you don’t preach and you don’t think we’re broken and you wake up screaming some nights and you look good in those dumb running shorts.” He caught Sam’s eyes. “You doin’ okay?”

Sam was stunned, his heartbeat soft and quick and too loud, because he’d expected a lot but he hadn’t expected this. He nodded.

“Right. Okay. So I was thinkin’, Steve ended up with just the right guy, and I’d be honored to walk him down the aisle to you one day. Just like I’d walk Natasha, if she asked. But…” he shrugged. “You know how you can be so happy and hurt all at once? Like when Steve got with Peggy, God, it was amazing and great and I spent nights crying about it. Only it was worse, because I was realizing that maybe I liked you, that maybe holding your hand when I was dissociating and sharing kitchen scraps with you was more than just guys bein’ bros or whatever they say now.”

“Christ you’re old,” Sam interjected. Bucky laughed.

“No shit. Sad old man, that’s what Deadpool said. I went outside for a breath, because Steve was too close and too warm, and he was sitting there on the back step with this half-dead kitten, tryin’ to feed it pizza. Most pitiful thing I’ve seen. So I sat down and told him you can’t feed a cat pizza, and he told me to fuck off, and we got to talking.”

“Wait. You told him what was going on?”

“Don’t be an idiot. He hears shit. God knows where and how, but he must ‘cause he knows _everything_.”

“Is that why his costume’s so big? It’s full of secrets?”

“What?”

“Nevermind. So he knows shit.”

“Yeah. And he mentioned, just in passing, that maybe I might like to look at this website. Pulled it up on my iPhone, right after he added himself to my contacts, and then walked away.”

“Was it fanfiction.net? Because this sounds like a weird fan fiction situation.”

Bucky wrinkled his brow. “Christ no. I thought Steve told you all this?”

Sam shrugged.

“Anyway. It was about polyamory, and I read it and I realized… well, Steve had that thing with Peggy and Howard, and I’d loved him while I dated all those broads, almost asked him along on my dates a couple times, and I thought if you were interested… but if you ain’t, Sam, it’s not a problem. I swear. Steve loves you more than life itself and he’d never hurt you if he could help it. You know that, right?” His eyes had gone all big and worried. “Sam?”

Sam was still for a long time. At one point, Bucky reached over to place a hand on his thigh, but quickly took it away again. Finally, when his brain had caught up with the situation, he said, “I know.”

Bucky nodded. “I’ll leave you be.”

Sam cocked his head to the side. “Didn’t say that.”

The room got very small in the space of a few sections.

“What-?”

“I’m gonna be jealous some days. But. I don’t know. I thought it was all about Steve. I thought maybe you would take him and go and I’d have to watch the two of you…” Sam caught Bucky’s gaze and held it. “I almost kissed you in the walk-in earlier. I thought Steve might kill me but I told him about it and he just got so excited and I panicked. I can’t lose more wingmen.”

“You know I can’t promise you won’t ever lose us, Sam.”

“I know.”

“So…”

“Shut up.” Sam covered Bucky’s mouth— not with his hand, but with his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the dear love of marvel these boys will kill me.


	12. I saw the Deadpool Movie and let me Tell You Something, Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ANGST

Halfway across town, Wade was shaking, his phone clutched to his chest.

“Okay. Okay, I got this.”

[You really don’t.]

“Shut up. All of you, okay? I just gotta call him. Ask how he is. Pretend nothing happened.”

[Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll have amnesia.]

{Or he’ll have had a good long talk with Bucky about how phenomenal you are in bed.}

“Hey, that’s an idea!”

[Maybe don’t bring up sleeping with Bucky. Dunno. Might give him the wrong idea.]

{Is there a right idea?}

He threw his phone across the room and settled back on the bed. He could try again in the morning; for now, there was nothing stopping him from thinking about Bucky, but with Peter’s face, and getting off again.

 

It was 9am and Peter had been out and about in the spandex for fourteen hours. He was worse for the wear, blood running down his leg from a gash too near his groin for comfort and the ache of purple bruises blooming along his spine. His whole body hurt like hell but he wasn’t going to stop, not yet, because home was too loud now that Aunt May needed the BiPAP at night and wheeled oxygen tanks during the day, and Mary Jane’s was too domestic. Her fiancé had bought her a dog for her birthday, and between that and the matching kitchen towels, it was stifling.

She was pregnant. Peter, she said, would be the godfather. 

And then there was Wade. It was a problem he didn’t want to address and needed to, because he could only spend so many nights in the shower, thinking of Wade until the water grew cold, and because now that Tony knew he would not shut the hell up about it. Text messages, emails, the works. He had even offered, over voicemail in a whisper while Pepper spoke about stocks in the background, to let Peter borrow the Iron Man suit “for the wow factor.”

If he was being honest with himself, Peter was lonely and reckless as a result. His injuries were getting worse. He was incautious, swinging between buildings in broad daylight because he could, even with the vitriolic articles about heroes popping up on thousands of blogs. Twice he’d tackled Daredevil, mistaking his red suit for Deadpool’s; the second time, Matt punched him.

His phone rang.

Peter had to dive for it, strapped to his thigh inside the tights. It was dumb to carry it but he didn’t want to be without it, not with Aunt May on a breathing machine and MJ eight months pregnant. Not with Deadpool slipped away to gods knew where, likely half drunk and half dead.

He lifted the edge of his mask and cradled his phone against his face. “Yeah?”

“Hey baby boy.”

“Wade.” The word came out breathy and warm, too desperate, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. “Jesus, I thought you were dead.”

“Mmm. ‘M sure. You know better than that, Petey. Nothing and no-one kills me for long.”

“Still. You coulda called. Or killed some girl’s creepy boyfriend or an old rich guy or something.”

“Thought you didn’t like the killing?”

“I don’t.” Peter shifted on the roof where he sat, legs dangling over the edge, so that he could look up at the clouds without straining his neck. “I prefer to know where you are, that’s all.”

There was a long second in which Peter’s stomach tried to crawl up his esophagus, and then Wade laughed. “Gotcha. Gotta keep an eye on psycho-boy, yeah? I pinkie promise, Petey, I didn’t kill anyone. Well. Maybe a few cockroaches, but no people.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Anyways, I called to apologize.”

“You… what?”

“For disappearing. An’ for showing you my face. It looks enough like a syphilitic testicle that I should probably get consent first, or cover it in guacamole so I at least resemble a fresh avocado and not a jacked-up one. In the trailer for the movie, Weasel said I look like the inside of other peoples’ assholes, so maybe that’s closer to the truth, but RyRy says I look like his cousin if his cousin got caught in a fire, and he would know. I do have his bod, though.” 

It occurred to Peter that Wade was very likely on a combination of prescription-grade painkillers, illegal drugs, and delusion, and topping up regularly. His monologues were more disjointed than they’d been in a while, and as far as Peter knew he’d never sincerely apologized about anything. He sighed.

“Wade, I don’t want to talk to you when you’re high.”

“Can’t get high, baby boy. Believe me, I’ve spent the week trying. Why, can’t a fellow apologize? Is the age of self-deprecating humor gone? Bitter sarcasm? I’ll be out of a job.” He giggled.

“You’re not okay.”

The laughter cut off abruptly. “Of course I am. Always am. Cancer’s the same, healing factor’s the same, and being a lonely freak and a pity fuck is the same.”

“Wade—”

Wade cut him off and his voice was rough like gargled razor blades. “Just tell me what you think. Honestly. Tell me how repulsive I am so I can stop worrying about it and get on with my life. My self-image hangs on this moment.”

And Peter knew that Wade needed to hear he was ugly and hopeless, that the blisters and pockmarks on his face were as bad as the murders if not worse, that he deserved them and that Peter saw them as he did: reminders of the past and things he’d done wrong.

“You’re not repulsive.”

When Deadpool next spoke, his voice had cooled, and the bounce gone out of it. “Right. Sorry to disturb you, Petey. I know you’re busy, doing hero stuff. Nice of you to condescend to worry. Nice of you to lie.”

The line went dead. Peter stayed on the roof, his eyes searching out patterns in the clouds, and told himself for the millionth time that he could not love a man like Wade Wilson.


End file.
